afterdays
by kangeiko
Summary: After L.A. is declared a disaster zone and the army moves in, it's every man for himself.


Title: afterdays  
Author: **kangeiko**  
Fandom: A:tS  
This is entirely Kita's fault. Thanks to **queenspanky** for betaing duties. Feedback & concrit welcomed.

* * *

I saw a man pursuing the horizon;  
Round and round they sped.  
I was disturbed at this;  
I accosted the man.  
"It is futile," I said,  
"You can never -- "  
"You lie," he cried,  
And ran on.

Stephen Crane, _'The Black Riders'_

Part 1

* * *

*

Two weeks after those that survived buried Gunn and Wesley in the ashes of downtown Los Angeles, Angel came home to find Ilyria, dark hair unkempt and unwashed, curled up in a corner, humming and writing invisible messages on the walls.

"Ilyria? Ilyria. We _agreed_ -" And so they had, but the 'we' had been Ilyria and Wesley, and this wasn't the time to bring it up. Instead, much as he had with Fred, Angel knelt on the dusty stone floor and reached out for Ilyria's hands. In his grip, Ilyria's hands were cold and they jerked violently, like spiders crawling over his skin. It was an abhorrent sensation and, without meaning to, almost without realising it, his grip tightened. "Ilyria. _Look at me_."

(Don't look at me.)

There was a faint, tinny noise from the other side of the room: the sound of earpieces being pulled out. "She won't," Spike said, and switched the Walkman off with an injured air. Their meagre budget did not stretch to replacing luxuries such as MP3 players. Or a TV.

Or anything, really.

"You should be asleep," Angel said without turning around. "You need to rest."

"Yes, mother dearest, I _would_ be resting if you weren't busy yelling at the psycho loony god-king in the corner who, I hasten to add, was quite happily entertaining herself without your demands for attention." Spike drew in a deep, shuddering breath and added, "ponce," almost as an afterthought. His voice broke on the word; too much air moving through a voice box that was now more akin to a cheese grater than anything else.

The tinned, uneven sound of what remained of Spike's voice made Angel wince. "How long has she been like this, Spike?" And, the unspoken, _how long have you been like this?_

"I dunno. Some time, I guess. I wasn't exactly clock-watching like an eager pup for your return." He started patting his pockets down, clearly searching for any forgotten packets of cigarettes that might have been left lying around.

"Right." Angel rolled his eyes at the fruitless motion and turned back to Ilyria. "Ilyria? You don't have to look at me unless you want to, but could you turn back? Could you - not be Fred?" His voice was pitched low, comforting; the same voice he had used on Fred back when she had been frightened and alone. It made his teeth ache.

And the Fred-form, its movements jerky and off-balance (not Fred; not Ilyria; _who is this?_ he thought for a split fraction of a second before he remembered that it didn't matter) turned to look at him. Beneath Fred's long black lashes, Ilyria's eyes were impossibly blue. "I broke it," she said mournfully in Fred's voice; a small child, full of poisonous guilt, clutching a damaged toy and scowling.

"What did you break?"

She pulled her hands free, retreating back into the corner. "I broke it," she repeated, sounding almost surprised.

"Ilyria -"

"Oh, for - would you leave her the hell alone? I don't need to listen to you yammering on endlessly!"

"Spike, does it not worry you in the _slightest_ that she's like this? I mean -" _look_ at her, he was going to say, and the words died on his lips.

"Look at her?" Spike finished, and laughed. "Yeah." He reached out gingerly, one hand on the wall as he felt his way towards the far corner of the room.

Angel stood to meet him halfway, decidedly _not_ reaching out to guide Spike to him; no, not at all.

"Get _off_ me, you bloody -" swallowing the epithet - and, doubtless, a large chunk of pride, Spike allowed himself to be led around the frame of the solitary bed, incongruous in the centre of the room. "We need less bloody furniture," he muttered as his bare ankle connected with one of the wooden legs.

"We need an actual house," Angel corrected, and deposited him unceremoniously on the floor. "With an actual fridge, and more than one actual bed -"

"And actual hair-gel?"

"Shut up." He reached out again, this time to guide Spike's hands as they groped aimlessly along the wall, gently steering him towards Ilyria's hunched frame.

"Blimey," Spike breathed as his fingers curled around a mass of ringlets. "_Fred_?"

"Not quite," Angel corrected grimly, one hand on Ilyria's shoulder, one on Spike's outstretched arm.

"Touch me and die, vermin," Ilyria said in her Fred-voice, and hiccupped. "And - golly, do I ever feel funny!" And it was Ilyria again, wide-eyed and swathed in blue.

"How could you not notice?" Angel asked, exasperated. "How long has she been like this, and babbling -"

"I didn't listen to the babbling," Spike interrupted. "And it's not like I could _see_ her, Angel. You know, for a supposed 'reasonable' man, you can be bloody unreasonable sometimes." He scrubbed a hand over his face. His fingers dragged across the empty eye sockets and he winced. "Damnit. I can't remember to _not_ do that."

"It'll never heal if you don't stop -"

"You sound more like my mother every day," Spike interrupted peevishly. "Anyway. How did you do, out there?"

"No luck," Angel said, the lie sliding off his tongue like butter. (He hadn't looked.)

"Right. 'Cause, six foot tall green demon with _horns_, that's got to be hard to spot."

"No one's seen him, Spike, what do you want from me?"

Ilyria was humming in her Fred-voice. "You are wasting time and looking in the wrong place."

"Where should I be looking?"

Her smile was slow and languorous as she turned back to her sigils.

*

The way it happened is - well, it hadn't happened at all. Doubtless Giles had a whole army of would-be Watchers writing up the loss of L.A., and doubtless an army of Slayers was already on the move, ready to reclaim the city. Angel hopes that they arrive quickly. He hopes that there are people left to save when they do.

_" - once again, Los Angeles has been declared a disaster zone. FEMA officials have erected a three-mile no-go area around the city limits to contain the radiation -"_

Radiation, my ass, Angel thought angrily. All it did was hinder the rescue efforts of those trying to get in; it didn't do a damn bit of good for those trapped inside. No food delivered, the only water available the stuff within the city reservoirs - no one to pump it to the people who need it, of course - and no sort of law and order of any description. Slayers still in transit, no police, no streetlights -

No vampires either, which made him absurdly nervous. When even vamps scattered at the scent of something dark and old, heavy in the air and thicker each night, it didn't bode well for the future of the city.

Maybe the no-go zone was a blessing.

Maybe, Spike had speculated shortly after the first warnings were issued, relishing the end of days entirely too much, the military had decided to nuke the place, so they were making sure all the civilians skipped town. Nothing says 'clear the area' like a radiation warning, after all. "We should figure out a way to get to the border," he said thoughtfully. "We're going to run low on supplies soon, otherwise."

"I'll take care of that when the time comes," Angel retorted. "We're not just going to cut and run, Spike. We're in no shape to move."

"And _you're_ in no shape to stay. For crying out loud, Angel, do you think this is _fun_ for me? Dragging you around like - like a sack of -" And he'd shut up then, blanching. "Shit. I didn't mean that." He turned his head, trying to locate Angel's position by sound alone. "Angel?"

Angel said nothing, fists clenched at his sides, listening to his heart beat, thrumming like a bird within his chest, and quietly hating it all.

*

end part 1


End file.
